


A great leap into the dark

by havisham



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes about vigilantes -- a Caped Crusader, how the perfect sidekick is forged (tragedy!), a felonious feline-fancier, a tragic District Attorney, and a reformed (reforming) tire-thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bat

**Author's Note:**

> Batman, genderswapped. And everyone else too.

Beatrice Wayne doesn't _need_ to work hard to get people to underestimate her.

After all, she's just another socialite, burning through her inheritance like it's funny money. Never mind that Waynetech's stock has doubled in worth since Beatrice took over. Forget about how the company is landing government contracts right and left.

The credit surely belongs to someone else.

Anyone else.

Beatrice Wayne belongs on the covers of Gotham's tabloids (though sometimes she's carried in the nationals too), dyed blond hair in disarray and arm in arm with a pouting bevvy of muscled arm candy, her red-tipped lips pulled up into a predator's grin. She knows how to live, that one.

She disappears from Gotham (and from the face of the planet) during her early twenties, purportedly to find herself.

She comes back years later, leaner and tanned, but otherwise no different. If she has found herself, she doesn’t say so. 

She's not without troubles, this Princess of Gotham. Of course. Living in Gotham won't allow for that. Even the untouchable can be brought down, in this city. Beatrice knows that better than most. Because, listen here, this poor little rich girl's got a real sad story. Her parents, pillars of the community kind of folks, were gunned down in front of her when she was just a child. Eight years old, in fact. She was found almost catatonic beside them, her pretty white dress all stiff with their blood.

(Beatrice Wayne never wears pearls. Not even on the rare days she deigns to wear a cardigan, to the shame of her WASP-y foremothers.)

+

In any case, the Waynes' death marks a turning point in Gotham's history. 

Things darken. Things shift. Things change.

And twenty years to the day, something moves in.

Criminals are running scared. There's something in the dark, something inhumane. Something unforgiving. Something that won't _let_ you do wrong in this town. 

(It doesn't kill. No. But it doesn't have to.)

It has a name, carried from mouth to mouth, in hurried whispers.

_The Bat._

And when the police — that is to say, Commissioner Jen Gordon, sets up what everyone jokingly refers to as the bat-signal — and well... It gets results. It's a symbol, shining so bold in night sky. 

It's a challenge, one meant to shake Gotham out of its deadly indifference.

It's too bad, then, that it also encourages the crazies.

And Gotham's got _a lot_ of crazies.

+  
When the intrepid reporter and Ms. Wayne's sometimes paramour, Victor Vale, asks Beatrice Wayne what she thinks about Gotham's new masked vigilante, she shrugs, eyes hidden by a gigantic pair of sunglasses.

But Vic is nothing if not sharp. "Is that shiner, you got there, B?"

Beatrice shifts in her seat. Then she leans in, movement deliberate and studied.

In a stage-whisper, she says, "That's right, Vic. Off the record and all? I am the Bat."

Vic laughs long and hard at that. 

He doesn't even notice that Beatrice doesn't.

Instead, she smiles thinly and rings for Alice to come and show Mr. Vale the door.


	2. Girl Wonder

Rachel Grayson, lately of the Flying Graysons, sits huddled in her blanket. She’s still, except for her ragged breathing. Beatrice, who had been roped into giving statements for the police, wanders close to her. 

This newly orphaned girl. 

Now is the time for softness, for discretion. Sensitivity. 

( A warning goes off in her head -- _don’t mess this up_.)

“Rachel?” 

The girl looks up, blue eyes wide, but not yet wary. There’s an impossible pain in Beatrice’s chest, lodged dead-center of where her heart used to be. It’s a feeling of recognition. Of kinship. Suddenly, she’s improbably nervous, as she touches the girl’s cheek. 

She’s aware that what she’s doing, what she’s going to do. 

Neither of these things are, exactly, the same as what she _ought_ to do... 

“Rachel, would you like to come home with me?” She takes a big breath, and exhales. The girl watches with a kind of fascinated horror. Beatrice continues hastily, “Now, you don’t have to say yes right away. You can think about it, for as long as you want.”

 _Although you should decide fairly quickly_ , a voice in her head supplies. 

Rachel stares at her, and the trademark Bea Wayne laugh dies in her throat. 

“Why?” Rachel’s voice cracks, and oh god, she’s so young. 

Temporarily thrown, Beatrice asks, “Why what?” 

“Why would you take me in?” 

And Beatrice does laugh then, a dry chuckle that isn’t like the one before. “Well. I’m terribly lonely and you don’t have a place to go.” 

Rachel’s lower lip juts out. She tightens her hold around the blanket. “You won’t be my mom. I already have — _had_ — a mom. A dad too.” 

_Come one, come all, and see the Flying Graysons fall!_

Beatrice shakes her head. “No, of course not.” Then, in a measured voice, “I know I can’t be a parent to you. But I can be a friend.” 

It’s a long, long moment before anything else happens. 

Before Rachel gives finally her a tiny crack of a smile and says, “Okay.” 

+

Beatrice tells Rachel, “Justice, not vengeance.” 

The girl grins. “Justice, not fun.” 

“Oh, _no_. Never.” 

Beatrice grins back. 

\+ 

Some might question the wisdom of bringing a child into the fray, a brightly colored target in yellows, reds, and greens. But those who saw the new Robin in action could see that she is something else entirely. She’s fast and strong, and cuts through the air like a knife, finely honed and deadly. 

_Untouchable._

The Bat and Robin go together so well, it’s like they’ve unlocked some kind elemental formula. Gotham’s criminal element doesn’t even know what hit them asl they’re hauled off into the paddy wagon. 

For a time, all is perfect.


	3. Satisfaction Brought Him Back

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“What’s wrong, cat — ” 

“If you say cat got your tongue, _this_ — ” she hold up a batarang, “is going to be embedded in your throat.” 

The Cat pouts. “Well, you’re no fun.” 

And because she had to say it, “You look like you’ve been _poured_ into that suit.” 

“Waxed my chest just for you, Bats.”

\+ 

Sylvester Kyle wears too much cologne. He’s too much of everything, dressed in that flashy gold suit (it’s like he was aiming for Vega and overshot by three-thousand miles), as well as too demanding of her attention, of her time, her everything. 

He leans in in a satisfied sigh. “Not cologne, darling. Pheromones.” 

Beatrice pulls away. Slow dance or not, this had got to stop. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

He smiles in a way he thinks is charming. “You never have to make excuses with me, Bea, you know that.” 

“Sylvester, I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.” 

“No!” His face doesn’t so much fall as it does an hundred-feet dive. “Come on,  
you gave me body-image issues, B! You owe me something!”

She’s leaving. He’s still talking. 

“Tell me we don’t have something there!” 

\+ 

Days later, a priceless figurine of Bastet is stolen from the Gotham Institute of Fine Arts. 

By the time she reaches the roof, the Cat is tapping his heels, waiting for her. He waits for her to speak, but that’s not happening, so after adjusting his goggles, he does. He starts off. “Sorry about earlier.” 

The Bat waits. He continues, “It was uncalled for.” 

Silence. 

The Cat twitches. 

The Bat shrugs. 

Finally, she speaks, “I’m sorry that you have body-image issues.” 

He nods seriously. “I fight it by wearing skin-tight cat suits. And carrying a whip.” 

She smirks, and it’s a Bat-smirk, so it’s terrifying. But the Cat doesn’t bat an eye. 

“We all have different ways of coping,” she concedes, finally. 

“So. You gonna chase me now?” 

“Have you taken something that doesn’t belong to you?” 

“That’s _such_ a — ” 

They’re off, into the great good night.


	4. Two's Company

Harriet Dent has accomplished a lot in her time as Gotham’s youngest (and first female) district attorney. She’s tough, brilliant, and does not suffer fools lightly. She’s beautiful too, although she takes great pains to prove to everyone (especially herself) that she didn’t come up through the ranks by her looks alone. 

Harriet is a serious woman. 

Why then, she should be such great friends with the flighty socialite Beatrice Wayne? On the face of it, the two did seem to have much in common. 

Harriet, after a night of going toe-to-toe with Gotham’s finest civic and social leaders, is ready to call it quits. (Maybe it wasn’t too late to take that corporate law gig in L.A.?) 

She’s thinking this when she feels a light hand on her shoulder, a cool voice whispers in her ear. “Now. if you’re done glad-handing these fine folks, maybe you and I could hit the town?” She doesn’t know how Beatrice can sneak up on her like that, wearing what looks like a dress that’s all (dramatic) vertical slits and calmly swaying in five-inch heels. 

She doesn’t bother hiding a grin when she says, “You’re bad for my reputation, Ms. Wayne.” 

“Surely not, Ms. Dent. I’ll have you home before midnight.” 

“Hm. We’ll see. How is Rachel?” 

“Oh you know, probably in bed by now. It’s a school night.” 

Beatrice is leading them to the exit, her arm casually slung around Harriet’s shoulders.They slide into back of the town-car, driving to … Who knows where. 

“You’ve changed,” Harriet says, her hands tangling in Beatrice’s short, dark hair. Beatrice quirks up an eyebrow. She says in a low voice, that isn’t probably meant to be sexy, “I’m saving a fortune in hair dye, you know.” 

“Mmm, not like you couldn’t afford it, but I’m talking about — the hair, _the kid_ — are you settling down, B?” 

Beatrice chuckles, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Harriet knows Beatrice is one of the most secretive people around, and it’s not possibly to get a straight answer from her, but now she wants something, anything that resembles truth. She thinks. It’s hard to think straight when Bea is pressed against, when her mouth is so busy on hers, and her thoughts lapse into a contented haze. And she’s pulled out of it again when her fingers bump into a long, jagged scar on the back of Beatrice’s neck.

Concern wars with suspicion. “B, what the _hell_ is this?” 

Beatrice is a unreadable as always. “Fencing accident.” 

Before Harriet can say, _but you don’t fence_ , she’s _there_ , pushing up Harriet’s dress, pulling down her panties — And she’s so thankful that she wore some nice ones today, though billionaire playgirl, Beatrice Wayne, doesn’t seem to care, at all. “Hey, c’mon, we were gotta talk...” Harriet bites her lip, hard. She can hear Beatrice’s quiet breathing, feel her hot, smooth cheek resting on her thighs. 

“Oh, _God_...” 

Beatrice Wayne may verywell have an uncertain relationship with the truth...

(She does.) 

… But she always find a way to make her lover come as quickly and thoroughly as possible. 

(And really, isn’t that the most important thing?) 

Beatrice. Oh God, Beatrice is saying, “Nope, just me.” 

\+ 

Later, when Harriet Dent’s life falls apart in the most dramatic way possible, and along with splashed acid and split personality, she acquires a new name and a new purpose in life which, actually, she’s pretty damn good at. Whoever said crime didn’t pay probably wasn’t very _good_ at it— 

And Dent is.  
And Two-face is.

They’re both _very_ good at being bad. 

When Two-face encounters the Bat again, she does say, “It’s not vanity. It’s not just vanity.” And if the Bat is willing to ignore how the left side of her face leers, she’s willing to ignore that her left cheek is wet.

The Bat shifts her stance, and there’s a familiar voice, coming from familiar lips. “Harriet, I know.” 

Knowing isn’t enough. It never is. 

 

And the Bat hauls Two-face back to Arkham for treatments that might work, this time.


	5. The Good Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Jayne Todd, reformed (reforming) tire-thief.

The kid stinks, of clothes and a body gone long unwashed. And, yes, that lingering stench of fear. The raggedy red hoodie is pulled tight, and when the Bat tries to pull it off, she gets a punch in the stomach that’s surprisingly effective. 

“ _Fuck off_ ,” the kid growls, The Bat can’t help but but sigh. There’s no easy way about it, not in a place like this, not with kids like … 

“Kid, what’s your name?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Okay, Fuck off, I’m done asking nicely. Give me back those tires.” 

+

“It’s Jay,” the kid says, rolling the tires back to the Batmobile. The Bat turns, momentarily distracted.

“Pardon?” 

“My name,” the kid’s leaning on a tire that’s half his size, with a smirk on his face that finds a corresponding expression on the Bat’s face. She knows that -- after the disaster with Elle, she shouldn’t -- not another one, but... 

“You live up there? Where are your parents?” 

The kid frowns, shrugs. “What’s it to you?” 

“Just asking.” The Bat leans on the car, watches as the kid expertly puts the tires back on the Batmobile. She doesn’t offer to help. 

The kid shrugs. “You can ask, doesn’t mean I’m going to answer.” 

“Hm.” 

\+ 

Later Jay tells her -- dad in jail, and then killed, mom got sick -- he shrugs here, doesn’t elaborate -- and Jay had to take care of her. She died, earlier that year, and he’s been on his own ever since. 

“You could --” She shouldn’t do this, not to some homeless kid at midnight, that’s not how things worked -- “come with me.” 

The kid bares his teeth -- which are a little crooked, but it’s not like Beatrice can’t afford orthodontic treatments -- and hisses that he doesn’t do that sort of thing. 

The Bat’s hands flew up. “Nothing like that. _God_.” 

The look the kid gives her is older than them both. 

\+ 

Alice hums for attention, and Beatrice lifts her head and blinks at the clock. It’s ten in the morning, and surely it is no time for a nocturnal crimefighter to be up and about. She leans back on the chair -- which, whatever Elle says, isn’t her throne, not by a long shot, and closes her eyes, briefly. 

Alice waits. 

After an appropriate length of time has passed, Beatrice asks, “What is it, Alice?” 

“Miss Jayne would like your attention, madam.” 

“Miss. Jane?” _What_ had she brought home last night? 

“Indeed, madam.” 

\+ 

It turns out that she’s named after the actress, _Jayne_ Mansfield, someone Beatrice remembers vaguely enough. Fantastic tits, a tragic end, mother of the butch detective on the show Beatrice won’t admit to watching. Not that Beatrice says any of that aloud, although the look Jay gives her is all too knowing. 

Jay is vacuuming up food, right and left. Breakfast officially ended half an hour ago, but nothing’s been put away. Beatrice, who watches the girl with mild interest, wonders if she should put a stop to it at some point. In between gulps of milk and bites of toast spread thick with Nutella, Jay explains, “I was born blond as a fuck. It was either Jayne or Tweety-bird.” 

“Not Marilyn?” 

Jay gives her a look. “ _Please_.”

“And. The attire?” 

“What about it?” 

Beatrice rubs her bottom lip. “You misled me.” 

Jay gives her a sneer. And she’s good giving at those, even when her mouth isn't full. “Disappointed?” 

Beatrice says, distantly, “That’s not appropriate.” 

Jay grins into her cornflakes. 

Beatrice goes on. “We’ll have to do something about your frequent use of profane language.” 

“Gonna make me a lady, Professor?” Jay’s eyelashes flutter, she’s an actress already, but probably of the music-hall variety, Beatrice feels. 

\+ 

Jay’s hair is a shaggy dark mess, curly and full of snarls -- and damaged from too many dye-jobs. She asks Beatrice to give her a buzz-cut -- to see what it feels like, she says. Beatrice doesn’t protest. After, she looks more fragile, stripped of her usual defenses. She does look like a teenage girl, with a delicate, turned-up nose, and dark blue eyes, fringed with long lashes. 

Her pouty pink mouth that gives Beatrice a razor-sharp grin. 

Beatrice has faced down master-criminals and madmen of all sorts -- all of whom were determined to kill her in gruesome and imaginative ways. 

She _isn’t_ unnerved by a thirteen year old.

\+ 

Jay runs away, twice. 

She's kicked out of the first three schools that Beatrice gets her enrolled into, but that is not without its compensations, since she busts two drug rings and cracks a secret society dedicated to cheating on standardized tests. 

Trouble seems to follow Jay around. But that too is not entirely a bad thing for a (future, possible) crimefighter to have. 

 

They eventually decide that tutors would be the best thing for Jay, right now. She complains at the amount of homework she receives, but she does it. For the amount of school she's missed, her progress is remarkable. 

\+ 

Beatrice Wayne's newly adopted daughter makes a splash on the society pages, and a even bigger splash at Veronica Vreeland's end-of-the summer bash when she pushes Jack Houston, the eighteen year old heir to Houston Chemicals, into the pool.

When Beatrice asks for an explanation, Jay coolly recounts young Houston's awkward attempts to seduce her. ("He wanted me to give him a blow job. I told him that he could die in a hole, and then fuck off while he's at it.") Beatrice listens carefully, and then advises her that -- next time -- a stumble and a flute of champagne will do just as well. 

"You mean the champagne I'm not supposed to be drinking?" 

"Yes, that champagne." 

They drive home in silence, if not in peace.

 

The next day, the stock for Houston Chemicals crashes, leaving analysts stunned. 

\+ 

Elle meets Jay on Christmas.

They are … not unfriendly towards each other, which is better than can be hoped for, at this point in time. Elle is all grown up now (Rachel has become _Elle_ , after all), and she's out of Beatrice’s obit, out of Beatrice's _control_ now. And that's something Elle never tired of reminding her, whenever they meet. (Elle’s living in New York, shacked up with some alien royalty, not that Beatrice is keeping track. Although. If Elle asked her -- _which she didn’t_ \-- Beatrice would've said to rethink the costume.) 

Elle gives Beatrice a wry look that could mean many different things. Beatrice pretends not to notice, as she puts the last of the presents under the tree.

“A punk-rock Robin, B?” 

“She isn't Robin.” _Yet._

“Hey,” Elle’s face softens, all teasing gone. “It’s okay, you know. _I’m_ okay with it. I knew Robin wasn't going to be mine forever.” 

“I know. That you know.” 

“Oh, B.” And Elle is hugging her, tight and Beatrice lets herself _loosen_ a little -- 

They sit on the floor, talking about of Elle’s team -- and Beatrice winces at the right places, at the horror stories. League business has always been her least favorite part of the Mission, but Elle, of course, claims to enjoys it. She does enjoys the company, and has grown into her own leadership role.

“And you don’t get trouble?” Beatrice raises an eyebrow. After all, Nightwing’s costume is more _exposed_ than Robin’s had been. In certain places. (Since they put the tights and extra armoring in, anyway.) But Elle giggles (which is charming) and waggles her eyebrows (which is also charming). “You’d be surprised how useful lechery can be, in this business. Plus, I can hit them harder if they stare. Them’s the rules.” 

Beatrice makes a noncommittal sound. After all, she trades in fear and intimidation, not distraction. 

(That fear is hard fought for, and hard-won. But she doesn't allow herself forget that Elle is as much of a fighter as she is.) 

Beatrice doesn't _quite_ dare mention the need for protection in other, more intimate areas of life. Elle and Kor are adults, after all. They don’t need … 

Jay’s entrance saves them from any more potentially awkward conversations. Her mouth is full of Alice’s sugar cookies, and some icing is stuck on the corner of her lips. She plops down in between Elle and Beatrice, and fixes them with her most charming smile, which is rendered only a little ineffective by the cookie crumbs that gets stuck between her teeth. 

“Were you talking about me?” she asks, brightly, licking away the crumbs.

Beatrice drawls, “Of course. Who else could we be possibly speaking of?” 

Undaunted, Jay snuggles closer to Beatrice, and after a second of hesitation, Beatrice puts her arms around the girl. Elle reaches out and runs her her hands over Jay’s shaved head. “Very cool,” she says, smiling, before settling into Beatrice's other side. 

Alice comes in, with more cookies and hot chocolate, and after everyone loudly demands it, stays on to enjoy some of the fruits of her labor. 

Beatrice watches the fire, and idly observes Elle and Jay pick the one present they are allowed to open on Christmas Eve, and then fight over who goes first.

Yes. 

This has been an unusually bright Christmas, she decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read more of Beatrice and Jay's adventures [here](http://runespoor.dreamwidth.org/117375.html?thread=666239#cmt666239).


End file.
